Feline
by ellen.robinson.921
Summary: John decides to get playful with Sherlock in a way that Sherlock could never have imagined. Will Johns efforts pay off?


He doesn't even realise he's still holding onto the kitty ears until they're all in the taxi, when Lestrade nudges him and says, "What've you got those for?"

"Oh," says Sherlock, feeling oddly sheepish. "The chief's daughter gave them to me to say thank you. Funny" He chuckles slightly.

"I know, but I didn't think you'd keep 'em. You don't usually like silly gifts." Laughs Lestrade.  
"_No_," says Sherlock, perhaps a little too defensively. "I just thought they were… Cute."

John flutters his eyelashes ridiculously. "On me?" he asks. He'd had a bit too much to drink tonight.

"Just in general."

"But you put them on me," persists John.

Lestrade sighs, sensing the tension. "Leave it, John. If Sherlock likes cat ears, let him be."

"I don't _like_ cat ears," argues Sherlock. "Except on cats, where they belong."

John reaches across and snatches the ears out of Sherlock's lap, slipping them on. "Meow," he says, somewhat obnoxiously, wiggling his eyebrows at Sherlock. "How about now?"

Sherlock glares at him. The thing is, John does look really cute with the ears on. It probably has something to do with his whole outfit, buttoned up blue shirt and bow tie. Even so, Sherlock doesn't think it should be _quite_ as attractive as it is.

"You look ridiculous, John," he says, shaking his head, but he can't help smiling.

"You love it," says John self-assuredly, keeping the ears on and adding another meow. Sherlock just rolls his eyes, but he can't really look away until they get back to home.

Or, even when they get back home, actually, because John refuses to take them off. Usually he can't wait to get to his bed, but tonight he follows Sherlock into his. He kick off his shoes and then spreads himself out on the bed, still fully-clothed and with the stupid ears on. Sherlock takes his coat off, studiously ignoring him. In the mirror, though, he can see that John's watching him intently, and when Sherlock takes off his scarf john shuffles over and snatches it up.

"Put it on me?"

"Why?" asks Sherlock, frowning.

"C'mon. You can't resist the puppy-dog eyes," John insists.

"Thought you were supposed to be a cat," Sherlock grumbles.

"Just do it," John says, clearly losing patience, and Sherlock shrugs and does, fingers brushing over John's Adam's apple as he secures the scarf. It's really hard to concentrate with John so close and still wearing those ears; he really does look _stupidly_ cute and it's distracting. The scarf, as it turns out, doesn't help at _all_.

"You look like a cartoon kitten," says Sherlock in a small voice, because it's kind of true.

John bursts out laughing. "_What?_"

He looks at himself in the mirror, inspecting his reflection. "Huh. I see what you mean. Like from a Disney movie or something." He glances back at Sherlock again. "You like it?"

Sherlock actually feels himself _blush_, which is just ridiculous. "What? I dunno."

"You _like_ it," John decides, poking him in the ribs. "Want me to be your kitten, Sherlock? Wanna pet me?"

"You're being—" Sherlock snaps, but then cuts himself off abruptly because John's words register and he realises that yeah, actually, he really kind of _would_ like to pet him.

Johns perched at the end of the bed while Sherlock's still standing up, and John leans out a little, nudging his head up against Sherlock's chest. It's such an affectionate gesture—Sherlock focuses on that instead of the cat-like nature of it—and he can't help but reach out and stroke John's head, fingers brushing over the band that holds the ears. John makes a pleased little purring sound and nuzzles against him.

"You're being an idiot," Sherlock says, but it comes out kind of fond and husky this time. It's different, having John act like this, all sweet and cuddly and calm. John's loving it, nuzzling up against him and wriggling a little when Sherlock scratches gently behind the fake ears with the pads of his fingertips. The little soft noises he's making are pretty nice, in a way they probably shouldn't be considering the context.

Because, like. He's kind of getting hard. It's not the ears, he tells himself, it's so not the ears, it's just the way John is kind of squirming against him and his hair is so soft and he's making noises.  
John reaches up to steady himself with one hand on Sherlock's hip, and Sherlock jerks away in an instant, paranoid. John draws back, eyebrow hitching curiously, but says nothing for a moment and then snuggles back in against Sherlock again. For a second Sherlock thinks he's gotten away with it but then John's hand darts out again at lightning-speed, palming him through his trousers and feeling the slight bulge there.

"Weirdo," says John softly, and a little triumphantly, into Sherlock's half-unbuttoned shirt. "You like this."

"I don't think I'm the only one," Sherlock says, because as soon as his fingers snake into John's hair again, he goes all pliant under Sherlock's hand.

"Ears?" says John hopefully, and Sherlock laughs.

"You can't even feel it," he says, stroking his fingers over the fuzzy ears and feeling like an idiot for it, but—well, it's kind of nice; they're all velvety-soft against his fingers and John twists his head a little like it feels good. Sherlock's getting harder, filling up fast from it. From _this_.

"I can feel something else," says John cheekily, his fingers smoothing over Sherlock's crotch.

And, well, fine. So maybe this is okay. John isn't just winding him up anymore, trying to embarrass him, because he's embarrassing _himself_ now in the process and he's not usually willing to do that unless he's getting something out of it. And the thing is, John is ridiculously accepting of this sort of thing. Sherlock sometimes wonders if there's _anything_ he wouldn't do. He assumes John must have some sort of line, but so far, they haven't found it. Sometimes he wants to suggest something _seriously_ filthy or bizarre just to see if John would go along with it. Sherlock's never quite sure if John's just indulging him, or he really gets off on pretty much anything.

"'m not being mean," says John, pouting a little into Sherlock's chest. "I don't care if you like them in _that_ way. We could even do something about it if you want."

"Like what?" Sherlock says, still stroking him absent-mindedly while John's fingers are working with more purpose now, feeling out the shape of his cock in his trousers and rubbing steadily over it.

John draws back then, and unbuttons Sherlock's shirt the rest of the way, sliding it off his shoulders. "I could suck you off like this," he suggests, voice gone all low. "Or...you could fuck me."

Sherlock swallows, overcome with the mental images. "Both," he says tightly. "Both is good."

John grins, a little triumphantly Sherlock thinks, and makes quick work of getting Sherlock's trousers and pants down around his ankles. Sherlock's cock springs out, fully hard now from John's promises, and John is eager, pushing Sherlock back so he can drop to his knees onto the floor in front of him. He's thirsty for it, mouth already so wet as he sinks down over Sherlock's length, takes him in deep with little hesitation. Sherlock grabs at nothing for a moment, brain going blank as he feels John's lips tight around him and the gorgeous slippery warmth and friction. And then John makes a little pleased sound in the back of his throat and Sherlock grabs for his head helplessly, fingers finding the kitty ears right away.

He's struck by a sudden urge to pull on them, to tuck his fingers into the soft fur and just _yank_, but he knows the headband would come right off, so instead he clamps his hand down over John's head, feeling the press of the band against his palm and letting his thumb crumple one of the ears a little. It still feels pretty good, but not as good as John's fucking _mouth_, all stretched wide around his cock and taking him in, wet warmth that Sherlock pushes into over and over, knowing John can handle it. Sometimes when they do this, John will even clasp his hands behind his back and just let Sherlock use him, not making any attempts at keeping control—but whenever he does that Sherlock always comes ridiculously fast, not able to hold back when he looks down at John and sees him just taking it, letting the spit run down his chin, his whole body wracked with Sherlock's thrusts.

Right now John is clutching at his hips, sort of kneading at them with his fingertips, thumbs pressing against bone. If Sherlock starts to get a little wild, he'll feel a sudden sharp press of fingernail into his skin, a warning to hold off, that he can't come now because John wants this energy from him when they're fucking, wants Sherlock to pound his _arse_ like this, not just his mouth. The thought makes Sherlock nearly lose it and his hand slips off John's head reluctantly, going down to the bow tie. He doesn't want John to take that off, he decides, wants him to keep it and the shirt on as well as the cat ears.

John is touching himself now, one hand dropping from Sherlock's hip to go between his legs and fumble with his fly so he can get his hand inside and stroke at his cock. And usually that's really fucking hot, the way he can't quite control himself sometimes, so turned on by the feel of Sherlock in his mouth that he has to give himself some relief. But right now, it pisses Sherlock off; he wants this to be about _him_. He jerks back, pulling wetly out of John's mouth and angles his hips away.

"Sherloocckk," John whines. "I was enjoying that."

He leans back in towards him, lips gleaming and reddened, and it's all Sherlock can do not to just shove right back in. "Gonna fuck you," he decides, heart rate quickening a little just from the words, the anticipation.

"Fuck. Yes. Please." John's head darts forward, teeth nipping at the skin of Sherlock's stomach, gentle but sudden, and Sherlock jolts. "That didn't hurt," says John, grinning wickedly. "Got tiny kitten teeth, me."

Sherlock shakes his head and smoothes a hand over John's hair, feeling where it's starting to go damp at the roots with sweat. He flicks one of the furry ears with his finger and John makes a little noise and gets up, back onto the bed, sprawling out like—well, a lot like a cat, actually, but Sherlock tries not to think about that.

"Might need to take your trousers off, John," Sherlock reminds him, and John moans frustratedly, laughing as he heaves himself back up and struggles out of his trousers and boxers. Sherlock doesn't even _need_ to tell him to keep the shirt and tie on because he clearly can't be bothered removing anything besides what's absolutely necessary.

"You're so impatient," Sherlock teases in a drawling voice, smirking as he finishes undressing himself.

"Yeah, well, you're turned on by cat ears, so," John quips, finally tugging the tangle of clothes from his feet and then shuffling over to Sherlock on his knees to pull him down onto the bed. Sherlock stumbles, falls clumsily on top of John who wraps his legs around him instantly, shameless.

"Could've got lube while you were up," Sherlock points out, and John groans again.

"You get it," he says, already starting to rock his hips up a little against Sherlock so that their erections press and rub together.

"I'm kind of trapped," Sherlock chuckles, gesturing to the way John's legs are clamped right around him.

"Ughhhh," is John's response to that, and he flings an arm out, reaching blindly for the bedside table and, impressively, managing to get the drawer open without having to move too much. He fumbles around some more and Sherlock just watches, amused.

It's like this a lot—John will tease him mercilessly, sometimes _cruelly_, purely because he thinks there's a chance it might end in sex. And probably about half the time he's actually _wrong_, because he'll hit a nerve or cross a line and it'll end in a little spat instead. But he'll always keep trying because sometimes he's right; sometimes the thing he chooses to wind Sherlock up about is _just the right thing_ and it'll lead to this. Sherlock's never really understood why John has to make a game of it, play at having all the power until the second Sherlock gives in, because then it's just like this, John sprawled out on the bed beneath him and searching frantically for lube because he wants Sherlock inside him so badly.

The way he's stretching is making the cat ears catch on the pillows and come off, and Sherlock reaches out to neaten them up again. As soon as he touches them John squirms beneath him a little more, his cock a hot hard line sticking against Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock wonders if all the teasing was just an elaborate attempt at distracting him from the fact that John's the one who was into the ears in the first place, but it's always so hard to tell who really started it. John will swear down that it's Sherlock, every time, even though he's always the one who pushes it, says _you like this, don't you?_ if Sherlock's holding back.

"Got it," says John suddenly, his hand snapping back out of the drawer and not bothering to close it as he settles back down against the pillows again happily. "How've you got so much crap in there? I think I felt something alive."

Sherlock shrugs, not really listening as he watches John uncap the little bottle and slick up his fingers. "Oh, I see," he says, a little put-out. "Just gonna do everything yourself tonight?"

John freezes, looking guilty. "You always go so _slow_."

"All right," Sherlock says, frowning at him, "so show me how you like it."

Because, okay, he really does want to be in control here, but the thought of John lying underneath him and fingering himself is—not exactly something he's going to object to. John bites his lip and wriggles about a bit, legs falling from Sherlock's hips but staying bent and open, and Sherlock shifts so that there's a little more space between them, so John can get at himself. At first he just watches John's face, because he's usually too busy focusing a little south of that when he's the one doing this, and it's good to watch the way John's teeth sink harder into his lip and his breathing goes all purposeful and slow like he's trying to relax. His eyes are half-shut at first but then his gaze slides up to Sherlock and he smiles, lazy, and there's some kind of relief on his face like this is what he needed; he just needed something inside him and now he can relax, doesn't have to nag and tease anymore.

Sherlock looks down between them and sees the way John's hand is shaped, the heel of it pressed to his balls as his fingers disappear down beneath, and then, yeah, okay, just looking at John's face isn't really good enough anymore. Sherlock pulls off, sitting up and settling between John's legs and watching as John's finger starts to work in and out of himself. He's really not going slow at all.

Sherlock reaches out, fingers brushing over John's and slipping lower, and John starts to draw his out, assuming Sherlock wants to take over, but—"No," says Sherlock, a little sharply, "keep—yeah—"

He pushes his own finger alongside John's, feeling how tight he is, red-hot around him. His mouth is dry and he swallows. "Yeah," says John, voice breathy, "yeah, come on."

Sherlock tries to match John's pace but it's clumsy, their fingers sliding alongside each other. John adds another of his own like Sherlock isn't doing enough, and Sherlock makes a sound in his throat, angry at that, using his other hand to pull John's away, and John makes a little hurt noise at the loss until Sherlock shoves in four fingers together, all curled against each other in the tight heat, and this time John's arms flail out and he grabs fistfuls of the duvet, head rolling back. Sherlock smirks at him, thrusting his fingers fast and deep, and it's probably not slick enough, a little too rough, but John is writhing against the sheets in bliss, his cock flushed dark and almost bouncing against the crisp white of his shirt with each hard push of Sherlock's fingers.

He keeps chanting, "Yeah, yeah," like Sherlock needs encouragement, and Sherlock has to take his own cock back in his hand, squeezing it but not able to do much else as he concentrates on fucking John with his fingers.

"I'm—I'm ready," John pants out before long, lifting his head up a little to look down at Sherlock with needy eyes. "I'm ready, right? Come on—"

Sherlock had almost forgotten about the kitty ears entirely, but looking at John now he realises they're missing, fallen off with all his writhing. "Cat ears came off," he says disapprovingly, too far into this now to pretend like he isn't.

John sighs in frustration but reaches up behind his head blindly to fumble for the headband, and shoves it back on over his mussed-up hair, and—god, Sherlock still has no clue _why_, but he looks so good like that. Even better now that he's all dishevelled, his starch white shirt beginning to go transparent with sweat and the bow tie crooked, and of course his legs spread wide open and four of Sherlock's fingers inside him to the knuckles, twisting and pressing and making him squirm desperately.

"Weirdo," murmurs John as he straightens the ears out, but Sherlock leans over him and cranes his neck in order to brush his lips against the soft fur of the ears and John's breath hitches, and Sherlock's not so sure it's just due to the change of angle of his fingers.

"Whore," Sherlock retorts, but it's said gently, fondly, against John's cheekbone now as he withdraws his fingers and reaches for the lube.

"Yesss," John sighs, and Sherlock can't honestly tell if that's in response to what he just said, or because John's realised that he's going to get fucked now. Maybe that doesn't exactly matter.

Sherlock straightens back up up to reach down and stroke the lube along the length of his cock and smooth a little more over John's hole, and John is sort of twitching impatiently underneath him, apparently unable to keep still.

"Give me a second," Sherlock almost laughs, "don't want me to go in dry, do you?"

John just makes another frustrated sound which quickly turns into a sort of whine when Sherlock's still taking his time. "I swear to god, if you meow right now—" Sherlock says, but John is too het-up to tease at this point, his eyes gone glassy. Sherlock chuckles. "And you act like _I'm_ the one who couldn't wait to jump you."

"You couldn't," says John, but it's weak. This is pretty much the only time when John's unable to think up decent comebacks, and Sherlock likes that, likes having that power over him because it's so rare in the rest of their lives.

Satisfied, he tosses the bottle aside and John moans gratefully even though Sherlock's not even in yet. Sherlock steadies himself, one hand spreading out over John's stomach and feeling his skin hot through his shirt, and the other grasping his cock with sticky fingers as he guides it into John, slowly breaching his hole and making John scrabble at the sheets.

"Good?" Sherlock breathes, a little smugly, but John can't answer, and when Sherlock looks up he's left speechless too, taking in John's crumpled rucked-up shirt and the bow tie coming loose, and the flushed, dazed look of his face, and the stupid _cat ears_, fuzzy and black and deceptively innocent perched on the top of his head.

His legs are spread carelessly apart, loosely hooked around Sherlock's thighs and giving Sherlock plenty of control. Sherlock sinks in deeper, and John is nodding in a sort of urgent way, hair getting rapidly more spiked-up at the back of his head as he does so. As soon as Sherlock's fully-sheathed, John lets out a long sharp breath through his teeth, a real hiss, and Sherlock gives himself a second to adjust to the feeling of John all around him.

"So good, John," he mumbles out, stroking at John's hip now, pushing up the shirt some more to get to his skin and churning his hips a little, pressing into the slick close heat.

John sort of whimpers, "Move," at him, pleading and commanding and just _hungry_ all at the same time. He's clenching around Sherlock, making himself even tighter, and Sherlock groans as he pulls out and pushes back in, quicker than he might usually, not really easing John into it. But John just moans, and Sherlock hooks his hands under John's knees to have something to hold onto as he begins to fuck him, gliding in and out in smooth easy strokes now, picking up speed until John can barely _stop_ moaning, dissolving into a constant stream of sound that almost seems involuntary. Sherlock's thumbs press into the soft skin of John's thighs and his hips piston and John is beginning to rock against him, pink-cheeked and reaching for his cock now where it's bumping up against his stomach, leaking wet through his shirt.

Sherlock takes it for himself instead, batting John's hand away and wrapping his own around John's shaft, tight, fingers still tacky with lube as he strokes up and down, feeling the gentle throb of him in his fist. John can barely cope with this, still drawing up handfuls of the sheets and pulling at them, the bedsprings beginning to creak with the force of Sherlock's thrusts and the way John is hitching his hips up to meet every one even as it seems like an incredible effort for him to do _anything_ right now besides just lay back and take it.

Sherlock shifts slightly, his knees beginning to ache a little, and the smallest change of angle makes John cry out suddenly, his whole body going drawn and tight and his back arching high, as though he's being pulled up from the middle—he splutters wordlessly and comes hard, violent, clenching almost painfully tight around Sherlock's cock in pulses as he shoots stripes of come up to his chest and then dribbles the rest over Sherlock's fist.

"F—uck," Sherlock manages, staring down at him. There's a splatter of come all the way up on the shiny black fabric of the bow tie and the shirt is ruined with it, and the kitty ears are crooked, and John is trying to catch his breath in sort of wheezing sobs like he was caught off guard. Sherlock has gone still, gazing at him, hand loosely curled around John's softening cock, and John starts shaking his head, hands gesturing weakly.

"Keep—keep—don't stop," he forces out, and Sherlock doesn't need to be told twice, picks right back up, driving back in deep and then pounding right into him and it's still the same angle that made John lose it—John turns his face into the pillow and screws his eyes shut, his teeth gnawing at his bottom lip, and he looks _wrecked_. Sherlock almost wonders if he could make him come again, if he kept going like this long enough, but he can't manage it, not with the slick heat and friction surrounding him and the _sight_ of John like that, totally destroyed, all because of him.

He holds onto John's waist now with sticky hands, John's legs gone slack around his hips, and rides himself closer, hips bucking and snapping until he's bursting with it, fingers scrunching into John's shirt as he goes tense and comes deep, pleasure barrelling down on his body and draining him.

It takes him a long moment to ease off, room spinning gently around him and his vision gone starry, but then he feels John stroking at him, arm stretched out so his fingers can pet at Sherlock's chest. Sherlock comes back to earth, slipping down beside him on the bed and tangling their legs together.

He toys with the ears again, fingers lazy, and John chuckles at him, purring again. "Ugh," groans Sherlock, and John laughs, snuggling into him all blissed-out and satisfied.

"Can't wear them to sleep, John," Sherlock says, regretfully plucking the headband off John's head and tossing it across to the bedside table.

"I'll wear them down to breakfast," John replies, through a yawn.

Sherlock can't tell if he's bluffing, but it doesn't actually seem likely. John is willing to do pretty much anything. He wonders absently if he'd let him draw whiskers on him. "Really?" he says, grinning and trying not to let his voice sound too hopeful.

"Sure," says John with a one-shouldered shrug. "If you fuck me like that again after."

Sherlock laughs, pressing closer, lips to John's ear as he murmurs, "Slut."

"Cat-fancier," John shoots back with a smile.


End file.
